White Lace Robes
by Tastytime
Summary: Ron and Hermione have been married ten years, and everything but one facet is perfect. Will it break them apart when Hermione makes it clear that she doesn't want children, Ron is angry, and Harry is trying to bring them through it. RxHr. Updated!
1. Chapter 1

Title: White Lace Robes

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairings: Hermione/Ron, Ginny/Dean, Harry/?

Rating: T (for swearing)

Summary: Ron and Hermione have been together ten years, and everything but one facet is perfect. Will it break them apart when Hermione makes it clear that she doesn't want children, Ron is angry, and Harry is trying to bring them through it.

A/N: I've worked quite hard on trying not to make one side more sympathetic than the other, so that neither appears to be unreasonable. Personally I'm with Hermione on the issue, but hopefully nothing will be that clear cut. Hint (minor minor hint) of slash.

Hermione Granger has just turned thirty.

She is standing in her kitchen, surrounded by surprise party debris, having a screaming match with the man she's sworn to love, cherish and be faithful to. Right now though she thinks that she has never been angrier with anyone else. She's angry enough, that the vaunted self control that has become her hallmark as one of the coolest most contained Aurors currently at work, has utterly dissipiated, and she's throwing plates at Ron, because she wouldn't trust herself with her wand. Hermione has no desire to go to Azkaban for an Unforgivable.

Her husband has got his hands up, and the Quidditch skills that make him so formidable on the pitch, are enabling him to just about dodge her missiles. "It was a _suggestion _Hermione," he shouts at her, having lost his own calm a long time ago. "For fucks sake, I'm allowed to suggest something, especially when it is as important as this. Why will you never consider anything I say properly? It's not exactly an unreasonable request. If I was trying to prostitute you out, I'd expect this kind of reaction!"

"Well it's about the fucking same thing," Hermione shrieks at him, running out of plates. She knew she should stop and try to calm- the fact she was swearing at him, was a gross indicator of just how far the situation had deteriorated, and she knew vaguely that she was being unreasonable. But he _knew _what this subject did to her nerves. She mimicked his voice unkindly, she was too far along the path of pure rage to care about the inevitable fallout from this explosion. "Hermione, let's take off the Contraceptive charm. Hermione let's have a passel of brats running about our feet. Hermione maybe you should try for a baby. Hermione mind if I rent out your body for nine months, then tie you to the hearth and home, and have you cooking and cleaning like a little version of my mother."

"Don't you speak about my mother like that," Ron growls dangerously. "I'm not asking any of those things of you, so don't make me out to be some sort of feudal throwback. I happened to suggest that maybe we are at the point in our lives that it might be nice to think about having children. We agreed when we married that we wouldn't rule children out, and to be honest I've been thinking about them a lot." A suddenly wistful expression came onto his face, a hungry look that she'd seen before, but never understood what it meant.

She slumps into a chair and stared at him. "I said no. I'm never having any children. I told you that when we married, but you insisted on believing that I only meant right away." She lowered her head onto her arms. Wearily, she spoke. "Ron, I love you. But the thought of having a child sickens me. It's not you that has to become fat, ungainly and ugly for months upon months, you won't have to give up your job because Dark magic could affect the foetus, or stick around at home for the next eleven years. Men are all alike, all you ever think of is that having a pregnant wife will show off your fertility and manhood. It's like a little wink to your mates 'oh I've got her whipped' and I won't stand for it."

He sits down opposite and cast a sombre gaze on her. "It's not like that Hermione. I'm longing to have children, _desperate_," he clarified. "I'd be willing to do anything to help, you know that. It tears at my heart when I see how happy Ginny and Dean are with their three, Teddy growing up, Bill and Fleur and the pride in their eyes when they watch Victoire. I'm proud of you, and I love you, I really do, but there is something missing, and I don't think once you'd had the child, that you'd feel the same way." He watchs her despairingly, as she shakes her head.

"It's not on the cards," she says quietly. "You know how close I am to being the Head of the Department, I've been angling for the job for fourteen months and if I get it I'll be the youngest Head ever. That's too important to toss aside to become your bare foot Quidditch-mum." Her eyes lit up, as they always did when she talked about her job. "I've been waiting to implement these changes for years, you know that Ron. When did you stop being proud of me? When did you start loving me because I could be the mother of your children, and not because I'm your perfect women."

A strange silence falls between them.

Ron traces her form with his eyes. At thirty, she has blossomed into a woman that the girl of fourteen had never even hinted at. Her hair was as wild as ever, her brown eyes as warm, her figure had never been better- chasing Dark wizards tended to do that for you, and the little Glamour charms that most women conspicuously succumbed to after their mid twenties were absent. Hermione always said that she could live with a few freckles and flaws, and that it was just another form of escapism to try and achieve perfection. Despite that the awkward teenager had turned into a woman, not as striking looking as say Fleur or Ginny, but beautifully imperfect. After ten years of marriage, he knew every inch of her, the small scattering of freckles on her stomach, the untameable quality of her hair, the small hands with the simple gold ring on the left ring finger.

When she walks upstairs, he follows quietly, and sat down on the landing as she rummages through her bedroom. He wasn't surprised when she came out, carrying only her wand, and a small blue evening bag. Ron stood, and they walk in silence to the door. "I just need some time to think," she says stiffly. "I'll be at Harry's if you need me for anything urgently." Ron could feel his heart cry out. _Kiss me Hermione, _he begs silently in his mind. _Kiss me, because then I'll know that we have a chance, that it's not all finished. _She leans forward and touches him awkwardly on the shoulder. Then she is gone

--

Hermione curled up on the bench in the park, and watched as the sun rose over the trees. She was thirty years and a day old. The air was bitingly cold, and glancing hurriedly around to make sure there were no muggles, she chanted a Warming Charm, relaxing as the warm air settled around her. When she'd left her house only hours before, she had stumbled through the streets, deciding she couldn't intrude on Ginny in the middle of the night, and risk waking Dean and the kids. Even as the beautiful colours tinged the sky above her, she felt slow hot tears crawl down her cheeks, and she thanked God she didn't have the weekend shift. She should be curled up next to her husband now, relishing the warmth and companionship, not crying like some teenage witch whose crush doesn't fancy her back.

When the sky was the palest blue, she Apparated herself to Harry's house, letting herself quietly in with the key Harry had pressed on her, years ago. As she had known he would be, he was padding round the kitchen in a securely wrapped towel, humming to himself as he made tea. Hermione watched her friend with a fond smile. Harry was as different to his teenage self as Hermione, was not merely in his height, but in his entire aura. Where once he'd been filled with a nervous energy, he was now possessed of a deep calm that affected everyone around him_. _His dark green eyes radiated contentment, and even standing near him calmed her down. He was never going to be as tall as Ron, or with the muscles that came from Quidditch, but the serenity he exuded more than made up for the small defects in his appearance. Even the glasses seemed a part of him now. She sat down silently at the table, knowing he knew she was there, from the extra mug he set out, to the freshly made gingersnaps he retrieved from the cupboard. As he passed with the milk- neither her nor Hermione had ever got used to casually using magic for such things, he patted her shoulder, and spoke. "I've got someone here," he said casually. "They're heading off now." He made his way to the door, and pressed his lips lingeringly to the blond who waved briefly and left.

Hermione's mouth dropped unbecomingly open. "Is that who I think it is?" she said breathlessly.

Fifteen years ago, Harry would have flinched and mumbled something inaudible but now he simply smiled at her, secure in her friendship and understanding. After everything they had been through, his choice in sexual partners was the last thing that would concern her. "I'll tell you the story one day," he chuckled. "For now, well I'm happy." Hermione nodded, a small smile creeping onto her own lips, finally laughing with amazement. Harry's quiet laugh rang out as well. "Now tell me why you're here," he said quietly.

The smile left her lips, and her eyes sobered. "Harry," she said quietly. "I'm not going to ask for your support on this, because I know you can't give it to me. You're best friends with Ron as well, it wouldn't be fair to stick you right in the middle of a Muggle Soap. But it would help if I could tell you about it." She paused and waited for his nod. "Ron wants children." It came out starkly. "He wants them so badly, that I think he'd leave me for them. I don't want any. It's selfish and wrong, and Molly would say unwomanly, and Ginny would accuse me of being scared, and Luna would ask if the Zinglepuffa had infiltrated my brain, and made me hate children. I know he's right. I'm thirty years old, and time will run out sooner or later, and I'll be left childless and alone, a mad old cat-lady with her career to console her, but I still don't want them. I adore Teddy, Lily, Victoire and all the rest, and I love being their slightly mad aunt, but the thought of having one scares the hell out of me." She drew another breath. "I hate hurting him like this, and I said some pretty unforgivable things about how he wanted me bare foot and pregnant like his mother. I _know _it isn't true, but I was so angry..." her voice trailed off and she stared hopelessly at Harry.

In a gesture of sympathy he touched her hand. "Why don't you just apologise?" he said quietly. "If it wasn't true, and you regret it, just say so. You know Ron could never hold out against you long."

A tear fought its way free of her closed lashes. "But even if I apologise," she whispered, "that doesn't solve my problem. Every time I look at him, he has this dream filled look on his face, and he doesn't even know it. It breaks my heart when I see him staring so avidly at Luna's baby, and stopping in front of Veronica's Knitwear to admire the white christening robe. But you _know _me Harry. When I don't want to do something, I entrench myself further and further, and it's driven us apart. Last night was the worst argument, but it wasn't the first, or even the tenth. He's going to leave me, Molly will hate me, you'll become awkward with me, because Ron was your first friend, the Weasleys will continue with their happy family, and I'll be left by myself." _Again, _she added silently.

Harry's eyes were filled with compassion. "Hermione," he began, stroking her hand with his thumb comfortingly. "I made friends with Ron first, but you are equally my friend, and always will be. After everything I've done in my life, you're still here supporting me, and bolstering me up. Hell your reaction on seeing my er partner, was all I could wish from a best friend. Molly and the Weasleys love you as well, whether you're with Ron or not."

She shook her head quietly. "I wish I could believe that," she said softly, "but children are such a big part of life in the Wizarding world. I have an idea, but it's a make or break one." She watched his face tentatively. "If I tell Ron I'm barren," she said, choosing her words with care, "then he'll either stop pushing the idea, or he'll leave me."

"Hermione," Harry gently said. "You know as well as I do, that that wouldn't work. They'd have you checked by every Medi-Wizard from here to Timbuktu, and probably by a Muggle gynacologist. They'd assume thats why the subject upset you so much, that you wanted a baby but were incapable, and when they finally find out you're perfectly fertile, well it would be awkward to say the least."

The words hung in the air, but she knew as well as Harry that if Ron ever found out what she'd done, that their relationship could never survive it.

_A little bit drastic perhaps, but Hermione is the most logical of all witches. Reviews appreciated, I've tried to keep them in character, but with an extra dimension of maturity_


	2. Chapter 2

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Books » Harry Potter » **White Lace Robes**

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Author: Euripides

Rated: T - English - Angst/Romance - Reviews: 21 - Published: 07-21-08 - Updated: 09-21-08

id:4411943

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Title: White Lace Robes

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairings: Hermione/Ron, Ginny/Dean, Harry/?

Rating: T (for swearing)

Summary: Ron and Hermione have been together ten years, and everything but one facet is perfect. Will it break them apart when Hermione makes it clear that she doesn't want children, Ron is angry, and Harry is trying to bring them through it.

A/N: Hope you all enjoy!

Even though it was her weekend off, Hermione made her way into the Ministry to collect some paperwork. She would go mad without something to do, without something to occupy her mind. The Aurors were a fairly small group, shrunk from the ranks that had swelled in the aftermath of war to hunt down fugitive Death-eaters, to a core group that only dealt with Dark Wizards, not with every crime that came along. Cases were rarer and rarer these days, only the odd demon summoner, occasional Death eater in hiding, and spell-deviser who overstepped the limits. She was currently looking into a small time Love Potion operation- and from what she had observed, the runner appeared to be exceptionally stupid- stupid enough maybe not to realise that Amorentia was classified as a Dark Potion, in the Grade 3 category of Dangerous Devices. She shook her head again.

The wizarding world was a very strange place, she had decided long ago. Half the time magical ability was not dependent on how clever you were- some of the brightest people she knew had only a veritable dribble of accessible magic- enough to get them through Hogwarts, but not enough to ever give their spells the force and power needed to truly succeed, while others like this woman were thick as two planks, and yet had the skill and magical ability to concoct these sort of things. Even Crabbe had been able to cast Fiendfyre she remembered, and Lord knows he'd never strung two words together.

An hour or two later, when she had completely lost herself in the neat flowing writing that she always used for official reports, she was brought back to earth by a polite cough. Kingsley, although he was Minister for Magic, always seemed to gravitate towards his first love- the Auror department, and he was looking at her now with raised brows. "Miss Granger," he said with none of the informality he used outside the office. "I thought it was your weekend off." He knew very well that it was, he'd been at the party last night, and had told her specifically to take some time off. In her dual capacity not only as Auror, but representative of Magical Law within the department she was hideously overworked sometimes, something both Ron and Harry worried intensely about. Hermione was adamant that she could cope though. It had always been a given that Harry would become head Auror- he was simply too good at his job, and Hermione hadn't resented that. Instead she had taken on a second role- one that guaranteed the advancement she'd told Ron about, and raised her profile within the Ministry itself.

She smiled at the Minister. "I was a little behind," she said with a rueful grimace that fooled neither of them. His eyes took in her bedraggled hair, and wrinkled robes, and he raised an eyebrow. Both of them knew perfectly well that Hermione was _never _behind on work, but unless it interfered with her work, Kingsley was far too much of a gentleman to inquire into her personal life. He might have freshly discovered his inner martinet on becoming Minister, but Hermione was widely considered to be his protégé, and in twenty years time of perhaps succeeding to his position. She was unsure of whether what the other employees thought of as blatant favouritism pleased or annoyed her.

Kingsley smiled back, and dropped a folder on her desk. "Take a look at it when you're ready," he said drily, and paused for a second. "Hermione," he said carefully, "the case is... a little gruesome. Just be warned," then he strode off towards Higgins desk. Hermione stared after him. Many of the things she had seen since the war had been sick, usually twisted versions of every day spells. This case must be pretty bad if he felt the need to warn her. Curiously she flipped open the folder, and fought the bile that rose in her throat. She had privately always disliked wizarding photos, the way they moved- acting out one action over and over again, and this struck her as obscene. The first photo showed a man in the final moments of his life, limbs twisted grotesquely in a parody of life. The final seconds of his life had obviously made a severe imprint on the surrounding magic, and she watched sickly fascinated as his face _melted _and the skin literally slid off his bones. She took a look at the notes accompanying it, and sat back with a frown on her face. This case was months old. There was no body.

It had been pure accident that it was discovered. A pyschometry expert had tripped in the building, and when his hand hit the floor he had been swamped with the memory. They'd used an invention dreamed up by an Unspeakable- a camera that took magical impressions within a certain time limit of traumatic memories that had left a distinct mark upon the magical fabric of a building, and it had shown up as a trapped loop. She shook her head, faintly disgusted. The spell screamed Dark Arts, and the fact that it had gone so totally unnoticed was worrying. She bought the paper closer to her face, seeking to see if she had any idea of who the victim was. She didn't recognise the face at all, but that meant nothing. The killer could have polyjuiced his or her victim. She stared at it pensively, tapping the desk. There was something wrong about this. It took four or five minutes of solid thinking, and three pieces of Honeybee chocolate before she realised what was nagging at her subconscious. Someone had to have made the memory. The emotions and anguish had obviously been the victims, but for a visual recognisance to have bled into the fabric of the air, someone had to have witnessed the crime- either the killer was horrified at what he had done himself, a third party was present, or even crazier the victim had been reflected and able to see himself.

On further examination she sat back triumphant. Their first clue. The entire photo had the faintest shimmering haze over it, and she was fairly sure that the entire thing was a reflection. She resolved first thing to ask Kingsley if the room was mirrored. The second clue was the person cowering at the back of the memory. A tiny huddled heap with the slightest bit of wheat blond hair sticking out that could have been missed a hundred times if you weren't looking for it. Obviously the size of a child, and Hermione's heart twisted as she thought of a child having to witness that. That part of the photo didn't move at all, and thus nothing more of the child's features were revealed.

It was at least lunchtime now, but she didn't feel like lunch. Since she was in outside of normal hours, most of the people she shared shifts with were not in the room, and she sighed and leaned her head back, hands fumbling absently for a bit more chocolate. She always forced herself to not think of work during breaks, realising she needed a rest in order to work effectively. Unfortunately that left her mind wide open to her more personal troubles.

The picture of Ron's anguished face swam in front of her, and thinking of her conversation with Harry this morning, she stood abruptedly, and shoved the file into a bag. She wouldn't leave Ron moping at home all day. It was time they talked this through- without throwing things (as she remembered with a cringe of embarrassment) or swearing. When she walked in through the front door, she heard the wizarding wireless blaring out Penny the Pyromancer's dulcet tones, and her heart sank. Ron only listened to her, when he was really down- when the Chudley Cannons had lost yet another match, when he'd lost out to another player or he'd had bad news. She shouldered her hesitation aside, and strode into the kitchen. Ron was cooking himself lunch. As a Quidditch player, and a Keeper at that he kept to a protein heavy diet, and was allowed to eat almost as much as he wanted, whereas Hermione had always had trouble keeping the pounds off and thus made her own dinners. She vowed silently that she'd cook tonight.

Truth to tell she'd always felt bad at being such a hopeless wife. She and Ron had married quite young she knew, and though she'd had two years living with both Harry and Ron, she'd never had to take on the caring role in the way people seemed to expect of her being the only female in the trio. Harry and her had always been too busy with Auror training, to ever do more than grab hasty snacks, and the cleaning had been sadly neglected. It was a constant mystery to Hermione and her friends that while she was almost obsessive compulsive over the care of her books, and the organisation of her schedule, that when it came to food and housework she was so out of her depth. She'd barely mastered the simplest of household charms, and Molly had come by on a weekly basis with a severe look of disapproval on her face, and wand at the ready.

When they'd married she had started off with plans of being the perfect couple- she'd make sure that they always ate good meals on time, that the house was immaculate and that they could do all of the couple things that secretly she'd always dreamed of doing. That had crumbled in a couple of months of course- her crazy schedule had ensured that she never knew when she was in the house, and both of them were too tired to throw dinner parties, or anything other than the most casual get-togethers. Her mother had been worried though she had never expressed her worries in anything except the vaguest ways, that they were too _young- _merely twenty one after all, both with high powered jobs that came with intrinsic problems- in Ron's case travel, and in her own the gruesome nature of the cases that she handled.

They had been so utterly in love though, that they had disregarded all the helpful, well meant advice, and gone blithely their own way. Hermione had never regretted it, the marriage she had shared for the last nine years had maybe not been perfect, but it had been utterly wonderful in its own way. If only they had agreed on children. That brought her back to the present, and she walked nervously into the kitchen, studying the broad back of her husband. His red hair was as vibrant as ever, tied back now in a ponytail that had Molly itching to take her scissors to it. He was gorgeous, and had only become more so as the years passed- time finally enabling him to grow into his body, and be happy with it.

She pulled out a chair and sank down into it, her hand almost by reflex picking up one of the hundreds of books she left abandoned around the house, both wizarding tomes, and Muggle fiction. This was a copy of her favourite play Hamlet, and she gave a faint smile as she remembered how Harry had bewitched it for her, so the book read itself out aloud- in the dulcet tones of Sir Laurence Olivier. Shaking her head, she put it aside. Now wasn't the time for reading. Pondering her hands, her head shot up in surprise when Ron slid a perfectly toasted sandwich towards her- ham and cheese, a treat she allowed herself only rarely since discovering that despite all her activity she was still gaining weight as her metabolism slowed down. Of course her boys always assured her that she looked gorgeous- but they would still say that if she weighed twenty stone. She picked it up and bit in, needing the small comfort especially when she knew Ron's eyes would be so sad.

He sat down in front of her with his fry-up, and they both ate in silence for a few minutes. He broke it first- true Gryffindor courage, thought Hermione idly, though she had long since learned that Hogwarts categorisation rarely worked in the real world. "I'm so sorry Hermione. I shouldn't have raised the subject again," he hunched his shoulders defensively, and her heart lurched with self-hatred for making him feel this way. "I understand you need time, and I'm willing to give you as much of that as you need."

Hermione bit her lip, and felt her fingernails dig in deep with self-reproach. How could she do this to him? Part of the problem was their undoubtedly different backgrounds. Hermione was an only child, whose mother had gone straight back to work a year after she was born, though to be fair it had been only part time until she was five. Half of her time was spent with her mother, and the other half with her Russian au-pair Olga-Maria. It was where she had learned her basic stumbling Russian- one of the reasons she had got on so well with Viktor (and still did) was that their common language was Russian, only quite basic in her case, and badly accented in his, but enough to seal a common bond. Ron on the other hand had grown up in a riotous family of seven children, with a constantly present, almost suffocating over-protective mother, and he and each one of the Weasley children thought back to it adoringly as the ideal of family life.

Fleur had been pregnant within months of being married, when Charlie had finally got his act together and married Gertrude they'd almost immediately had twins, and it seemed that every other Weasley spouse was bloomingly fertile. Even Ginny had three children, though she had made it quite clear that Dean was happy to be a house husband and look after them, while working from home. Harry and Hermione shared an unspoken depth of feeling about the subject. Only children from backgrounds that had forced them fairly early on to rely on themselves, they had been bewildered at just how important procreation was within the Wizarding world. It had been what caused Ginny and Harry to break up, though they'd never been so crass as to say it. They had loved each other, but when they'd discovered how fundamentally incompatible their aims were within life, it had been a difficult but necessary decision to break up before they got truly serious. Harry had confided in Hermione that he didn't _want _children, though for entirely different reasons. He was afraid that he would live to see his child suffer and die, in a world that could never be entirely fixed.

Inhaling a deep breath, she looked at Ron and took his hand in hers. "It's my fault," she said quietly. "I said some pretty unforgivable things last night I know. I love you, and I want desperately to make things work with you, but I'm not having a baby just to fill a gap. If our relationship needs cementing with a child, then it's not a good relationship for that child to be born into." She bent her head, unable to bear the pain in his eyes.

"Hermione," he breathed, as he reached across and stroked her hair out of her face. "It's not filling a gap- don't you want a baby, one with your brains, and my flying skills, with bright blue eyes, and your brown hair?" His voice sounded perilously close to breaking with emotion, and Hermione made the hardest decision of her life.

"I can't lie to you Ron," she said softly. "I don't want children. I love them, and maybe we should think about adopting, especially a child with problems perhaps who doesn't have a home. But you know how important my career is to me. Isn't it good enough to be the favourite uncle?"

He shook his head slowly. "It isn't," his voice was sad. "I love you Hermione. But should we be together if we can't agree on something so fundamental?" He had voiced the words Hermione was too frightened of, to say.

She sat there frozen, with his hand still in hers. "Tell him you'll have a baby," her heart screamed, "tell him _anything_ to make him stay." But her head, that always logical part of her, the part of her that felt like Minerva McGonagall stopped her. She didn't want to build her relationship on a lie, just to save her marriage. Slowly she got up. Ron had been brave enough for two of them today, now it was her turn to hold her head up high, and not let the tears glazing her eyes fall. "I love you," she said, and was proud of her voice for not trembling. "I will always do so." Silently she moved to one spot of the house you could Apparate in, and stood there indecisively. Ron sensed her need, and moved forward as he always had done- to catch and comfort her.

"I love you too," he whispered. "This is merely a trial." He kissed her once, firmly and then she Apparated away, the tears at last beginning to fall.

Reviews welcomed. Reviews especially on whether the characters are OC or not. I'm striving to have them mature and grownup, but still recognisable from Hogwarts days.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** White Lace Robes

**Fandom:** Harry Potter

**Pairings:** Hermione/Ron, Ginny/Dean, Harry/?

**Rating:** T (for swearing)

**Summary:** Ron and Hermione have been together ten years, and everything but one facet is perfect. Will it break them apart when Hermione makes it clear that she doesn't want children, Ron is angry, and Harry is trying to bring them through it.

**A/N:** Reviews welcome as always. I have left review replies to those who are anonymous at the end of this chapter.

* * *

Occasionally at Hogwarts, Hermione had lain awake filled with exasperation at the sobs of her room-mates. She had turned and twisted uncomfortably, and wished to God that one of them would learn a silencing charm. She had wondered if it would be unconscionably rude to try to teach one to Lavender, or Parvati, since neither of them appeared to use one at all. Sometimes either of them would pad from their bed, and go to comfort the other one, soft words mixed in with small sniffles. She just lay awake and stared into the dark. She had wondered if that made her a bad person, that she didn't feel the need to smother and sympathise, had felt it might be slightly crass if she tried to do so.

She had kicked herself in self-hatred, last year of Hogwarts when she returned for her NEWTs, because Lavender didn't cry at all then. Her ruined face provided her with more than enough motivation, but the tears that had been so easily elicited by fickle boys, were locked away inside her. Hermione had _wanted_ to comfort then, but years of holding back, holding aloof from her roommates had stood between them, and she had been worried that it would seem patronising; her sympathy might seem like pity.

She regretted now that she had never reached out, even before that last year. Because this was what it felt to almost have your heart broken. This was what it felt to sob, and feel as though your chest could tear itself apart from the force. She had Apparated almost unknowingly to Bristol, the last place she would usually think of going, and therefore the last place anyone would look for her probably. In one hand she held her work bag, and her evening bag was tucked in a capacious pocket. It had seemed only fair to let Ron stay in the house. After-all she was the one driving this relationship apart wasn't she? She stared unseeingly at the ring on her hand, and twisted it round and round.

It was the same old story, she thought sorrowfully to herself. Only this time she was the man in the scenario. Wasn't it supposed to be men who didn't want children? Who were afraid that they wouldn't be good parents, afraid that they couldn't cope, who didn't want it cutting into their alone-time? And yet there was Ron who would probably sacrifice his Quidditch career for a chance at a child, while she was running a hundred miles.

She spent the afternoon wandering aimlessly around Muggle Bristol, having taken the precaution of changing into Muggle clothing. It was a spacious city that she was quite fond of, especially the waterfront, and she was able to wander around pretty much unnoticed, watching the First buses go by, the water fountains, and pretending to shop for clothes in the unremarkable shops. Small things seemed to be enough to remind her of what happened, while she was browsing in the Amnesty bookshop, she came across a copy of _Fifteen Things to do to get the Girl of your Dreams. _That inevitably brought back Ron's shame-faced confession of using a book to help woo her. She managed to hide her tears, but still wondered what on earth the stringy haired clerk must think of the thirty year old woman staring so intently at a teenage boy's manual on how to get into a girl's knickers.

_What happens to the books_? she thought sadly. _If we never get back together, do I put them in storage until I get my own apartment, or do we work out something awkward like waiting and dividing them up together._ There was no doubt that how that would work out. Every Quidditch book, with its pages dog-eared and tattered from long-reading, would be Ron's, and every book with it's neat inscription in magically removable ink of 'Hermione Granger' would be hers.

She'd had an argument with Molly about that of course. It wasn't exactly sexism on Molly's part that made her so anxious that Hermione become a Weasley, but there was more than a touch of the pressure that a patriarchal society put upon the role of the wife in a relationship. Hermione wondered wryly if she had married anyone else, if she would have fought so hard to keep her own name, after discovering with a shock that it changed automatically instead of with choice. Ron had wanted her to take Weasley, because as he'd told her he was proud of his wife.

Part of the reason she'd refused so adamantly was simple. Ron's family was pure-blood. She would be the first Muggleborn to marry into their line, in a long, long time. Taking his name would be inducting herself into that culture, be hiding who she truly was under a false name and image. She was quite happy as Hermione Granger: bookworm extraordinaire, excellent Auror and wife of Ronald Weasley. Though she was quite happy she didn't have the buck teeth anymore.

As darkness fell, and the pubs began to fill up she strolled through the black spot of the area- St Pauls, the problem zone, secure not only in her magic, but the hand-to-hand techniques that Kingsley had insisted all Aurors start versing themselves in. Her height and weight would always leave her at a disadvantage, but few potential rapists seemed to expect any measure of defence at all. If she had been ten years younger she might have been tempted to drain the whole sorry mess in alcohol, but she was responsible now, as she had to remind herself. When she finally felt hungry enough to stop walking and find something to eat, she was far enough into a residential area that there was only a fish and chip shop. Normally the threat of that much fat would have scared her away (chasing Dark Wizards only burned so 

many calories, and the thought of her thighs getting even bigger was a frightening one) but now she only felt an overwhelming urge for food.

It was warm and steamy inside, and she guiltily breathed in, hearing her stomach rumble. This was a southern chippy, and so no mushy peas. She smiled slightly remembering Peter Mandelson's famous faux-pas, as her mother had related to her. On being offered mushy peas, he'd replied, 'Splendid. I'll have some of that delicious avocado mousse.' Ordering chips, and with only the slightest hesitation, a battered sausage as well, she plonked a can of coke down beside it. The cashier flicked bored eyes over her, gaze lingering longest on her breasts. She raised her eyebrows and he flushed slightly, and hastily wrapped her order after dousing it in salt and vinegar. She handed him a ten pound note, sighing at how little change she received. Bloody inflation.

When she finally found a seat, in a silent park, she unwrapped the chips and began eating it. After a few seconds she slid them across the bench. "Have one Harry." He moved out of the darkness and sat down beside her, hand reaching out for a chip. They chewed in silence for a moment.

"The best chips I ever had," he started, his voice startling her a little, "were three weeks after the final battle." She stayed silent, and listened. He drank from her can of Coke, then continued. "Do you remember, we were thanked by the Muggle Prime-Minister. Then we went and got pissed at the Dragonshide Arms. And you suggested we did Muggle London, so we Apparated into Camden, and had a wander around. We ended up eating at that Chinese take-away that did English stuff. We had chips and curry, and Ron tried to pay in Sickles."

"And you were sick in the gutter, Ron was sick in an alleyway, and I managed to wait until we got home to call God on the white telephone. That was a good night." They ate silently on, until all that was left was the greasy white paper the chips had come in, and an empty can. She screwed them up, then lobbed it in the direction of the bin.

He shifted along the bench, and put his arm round her shoulders. The weight was solid and comforting, and she felt obscurely relieved that he was there. He seemed to sense that and pulled her a bit closer. "Those were the best chips I ever had," he repeated. "They were greasy, salty, imperfectly shaped, and they were eaten in the company of the two best friends I've ever had, three weeks after we beat a Dark Lord between us." He sighed, and she felt it rumble through him. "I think," he continued quietly, "that it never got better than that. We all live in the past a bit. Us both especially, because the past is our home really. The past for us is Hogwarts and Voldemort, and hating school enemies because it never occurred to us to do anything but. Ron and Ginny have their family, and this truly is the only world they know. But we chose it.

Hermione closed her eyes, and tried to block the tears away. He was _right _as always. After her letter, her life had been changed irrevocably. When her parents had died in Australia in a freak accident, she had mourned them, but more as she would have mourned her grandparents, because she knew so little about them really. She nodded, not trusting her voice to speak.

"We chose and there was nothing more we wanted than to be part of it. I wonder if part of that has influenced our choices over the years. I'm not saying that you and Ron don't love each other; on the contrary I know you do. But I wonder if half of that love is a link to the past, to a past where the most we had to worry about apart from Voldemort, was homework and kitchen-raids. A bit like my love for Ginny was because she was what I had always wanted, because I associated her with Quidditch, summer days, and her family. It wasn't right for either of us." He shifted and sighed. "Maybe we've grown up too much. Things are changing after all in the world, and maybe it's time we changed with the times as well."

She nodded shakily. "I do love him Harry," she whispered. "I truly do. But I wonder if you're right, and it's the wrong type of love. Maybe I should let him go, let him live his own life and find someone who he can share that with." She hiccupped, and laughed weakly. "I know he could. But I'm selfish. What could I do? Who would want me then? A divorced career witch."

Harry laughed, a sound of warm amusement. "I don't think you'd need to worry about that," he said. "But don't make any hasty decisions. Maybe you could work out this thing with Ron. I've spoken to him already, and he's cursing himself over the whole situation. I think he'd do anything to get you back. "Even..." he hesitated.

"... Not have children," Hermione finished for him. "I couldn't ask that of him. It's not an issue on which there is any compromise either is it? We either have them or we don't. And even if he never brings the issue up again, in twenty years time he'd hate me for it. He'd always imagine the children we might have had, and it'd drive us apart.

She took a lungful of the night air faintly tainted with the dirt of the city, and gazed up at the sky. "I'm sorry I was so overly dramatic the other night. You know I'd never sterilise myself purposefully. I don't really have a religion, but I do think that would be a sin. But sometimes I get so desperate when there seems to be no way out. If only things were as simple as they used to be."

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Reviews welcome.

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Anonymous review replies:

kar33m: Thanks for the review, and glad you found it compelling.

Jtgfrhn: I do indeed know women who really don't want children (to this extent as well.) In fact though I don't share the same beliefs as Hermione, I don't want children either, so I guess some of the feelings are equivalent to my own, but adapted to Hermione's world-view. The reason she couldn't be a working mother full time in her own mind, is that she felt a bit hard done by with her own parents spending so little time with her. This is no criticism of working mothers, it's just Hermione's own particular case. Thanks for the review.

Nightwing26: Although not anonymous, I felt compelled to reply here. Hermione is not a bitch for not wanting children. She is a normal woman entitled to her own feelings on the subject. She is certainly not a deadbeat!


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